


Pandora's Box

by DHW



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:27:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/pseuds/DHW
Summary: Fill for the Good Omens Kinkmeme.Prompt:Aziraphale has a secret collection of deeply embarrassing demon erotica: 19hC purple prose, salacious wank fantasies disguised as "warnings" about evil, innocent angels being deflowered by the agents of Hell, etc.Crowley stumbles upon it.





	Pandora's Box

Crowley fished his lock picks out of his pocket and considered the chest before him. 

It was as large as a coffee table, the stained oak coated with layers of peeling varnish, dark with age. Cast iron hinges and braces secured the lid. Tudor, Crowley guessed, or perhaps Jacobean. Old, either way, and evidently full to the brim with secrets. It was a chest complete with a great, big and more than slightly anachronistic Yale lock, and whose only use seemed to be as an occasional table and home for the particularly ugly banker’s lamp Aziraphale had acquired sometime in the early 1930s. Hiding in plain sight like that, it practically screamed, ‘WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? NOTHING TO SEE HERE'. Which, in Crowley’s not inconsiderable experience, usually meant it contained something very much worth looking at, indeed. 

The box’s owner was currently located somewhere in Milton Keynes, having lost The Toss, performing a small miracle regarding a Lottery ticket, and tempting the County Council to install a new roundabout on the King's Road. Aziraphale would not be back until the early evening. This had left Crowley, demonic job insofar as he was concerned done, with a free afternoon and a temptingly empty bookshop in which to spend it. 

A crafty poke around his absent friend’s belongings seemed like just the sort of thing to while away the hours. Satisfy the old demonic urges, so to speak. Perhaps, if he was feeling particularly fiendish, he would rearrange a few of the books. He thought briefly of organising them all by spine colour, but came to the conclusion that the shop would look much the same; chiefly, brown. He could, he mused, alphabetise them by title, or even by the author’s middle name, but the more he considered it, the more it seemed a little too much like hard work. Eventually, he settled on the idea of changing the title of the ‘Philosophy and Theology’ section to ‘Pricey Paperweights’.

But first, the chest! 

Crowley smiled to himself and set to work. Lock picking was a specialty of his. True, he could simply will the box to open, but then what would be the fun? Half the entertainment was in the opening, he had always said. Secrets were all the more interesting if they took a certain amount of skill to expose, and given the trouble Aziraphale had gone to hide them, Crowley could only assume they were going to be worth the effort.

A precise wiggle of the pin, a flick of the wrist, and the lock popped open with a click. Crowley’s smile became a grin as he eased back the lid of the box, gamely imagining all sorts of _naughty_ things the angel might want to keep under lock and key. Seconds later, however, the grin became a frown. 

The chest was filled to the brim with books. 

Then again, what else had he really expected? The chest belonged to Aziraphale, after all. The only thing less surprising would have been biscuits; specifically, the pink wafers the angel would insist he never stocked when Crowley asked, yet mysteriously left crumbs all over the saucers. 

Mildly disappointed, Crowley began to lift the books from the box, scanning the spines as he went. Anais Nin. John Cleland. Henry Miller. William S. Burroughs. Philip Roth. Guillaume Appollinaire. The names rang a vague bell. 

Further down, there were a series of racy-looking paperbacks, pulp magazines and the odd penny dreadful, all of which had the look of literature well-thumbed if not necessarily well-written. The titles of the books left little of their contents to the imagination. 

“Well, fuck me,” said Crowley with surprise as he leafed through a dog-eared copy of _Sodom in Andorra_. The main thrust of it seemed to be the deflowering, and subsequent defrocking, of a priest. “The angel has a porn stash.” 

Quite a large one, come to that, he thought. The box was still half full, and its contents were becoming more explicit the further down he went. He couldn’t help but note, too, the slightly blasphemous undertones many of the books contained. Priests, Crowley saw, were a common theme. Men of God lead astray by pretty faces and prettier promises. 

Pretty _male_ faces, Crowley noted, not that this came as much of a surprise. The angel was as gay as the hills – it would make sense that his private and oh-so-unexpected wank bank would be much the same. No, the surprise came from how closely many of those faces appeared to resemble Crowley’s own. 

The surprise brought with it the feeling of warmth in his belly and an uncomfortable tightness in his trousers. There was something deeply exciting about the knowledge that Aziraphale, whether consciously or not, sought out Crowley-shaped substitutes to star in his bedtime reading. Scratch that. To star in his _reading_ full stop, given that the angel didn’t sleep, rendering the whole concept of bedtime superfluous to requirement. 

Which sort of begged the question – if not in bed, then where did Aziraphale do his more risqué reading? Down here, in the bookshop’s backroom? Unable to help himself, Crowley pictured the scene.

Aziraphale, stretched out upon the settee, the chest open beside him. A cup of cocoa steaming on the coffee table. In one hand, a book, the other stroking the rigid outline of his cock through the fabric of his trousers. Heavy breathing, punctuated by tiny moans and gasps the angel couldn’t quite help but make. 

Crowley’s mouth went dry at the thought. He shivered and glanced over at the empty settee, half wishing for the presence of an angel indulging in a little recreational self-abuse instead of chintz cushions, before returning to the chest and its contents. 

He fought the urge to touch himself. Not out of any sense of propriety: he was a demon, after all, and lust and sin and so forth were very much his department. Nor was he particularly worried about getting caught red handed (said hands being either busy in the chest or his trousers). Aziraphale was not due back for hours yet, and anyway, given the contents of the box, he doubted that the angel, when confronted with his favourite demon in the midst of a rather furious wank, would do anything other than give him a bit of an earful (and possibly file away the image for future reference). Maybe, if he was really lucky, he’d offer to give him a hand, given that he’d gone to the trouble of making an Effort. 

The zip on Crowley’s jeans was threatening to leave a permanent indent on his _Effort_ at the idea. It was testing his resolve. There would be time to do something about it later – right now, he was only interested in the box and the delights still contained within it. He flexed his fingers and grabbed another book, determined not to get distracted by his demanding flesh and its associated pleasures. 

 

_Un Tango Du Diable by Anon._

 

Nineteenth century, if the print style was anything to go by. There was no cover, just paper tied together with string. Crowley blinked, dusted off his French, and began to translate. 

 

_He soon undressed me, the Demon; a kiss at each wrist and another upon my sternum, then he pushed me down upon my bed, devouring me with his eyes and capturing my heart. Again and again we kissed, our mouths full of lust rather than words, tasting one another until I could not tell where one of us ended and the other began. His hands, large and capable, pinned me to the bed at the wrists, and for the first time in my pitiful existence I felt truly wanton. The prick between my legs hardened and lengthened, begging for the touch of my occult lover. I could feel a blush rising upon my cheeks at the strength of my ardour; I could no longer meet his gaze; I shifted beneath him and my prick pressed against his, the stiff shafts jousting within the frame of our hips._

_“You are mine now, Angel,” said the fiend. “Your innocence, your virtue, is mine.”_

_And yet, I did not care. The Demon’s prick pushed at my entrance, every inch of its inward progress opening further my virgin wound, bringing me to a rapturous delight. For a moment, my lover lay still, his snake-like eyes burning like coals from the shadows of his beautiful face, and I felt so wonderfully, so ruinously complete. Then he gave me ten deep thrusts, each bringing me more pleasure than the last, culminating in a sensation so exquisite as he spilled his seed inside me that I could feel naught else. Not Heaven, nor Earth. Only pleasure and heat and rush of the cosmos as it passed by. It felt as though I were falling from a great height and into darkness._

_And perhaps I had._

_My innocence was gone. Tender virgin no more, my shaft was engulfed in a delicious baptism of moisture. Unholy lips suckled the last of my virtue from my supine form as my essence gushed forth so profusely it could not be swallowed down._

 

Crowley moaned. Despite the stern talking to he had given himself regarding the proximity of his fingers to his cock, it appeared that his free hand had had a different idea. It was wrapped around his shaft, traitorously stroking the thing to the tune of thoroughly buggered angels. And it felt _fantastic_.

He cast the story aside and went in search of another. Then another, and another, until he hit the bottom of the chest. Manuscript after manuscript, book after book, they were all much the same, as though cut from the same cloth. Author the prolific Mr A. N. Onymous, they dealt with Angels and Demons and the sin of seduction. Sordid tales of virtue stolen by the damned wrapped up in warnings and caution. The prose was as purple as the head of his aching cock, and the less said about the character development (or lack thereof) the better. It was deeply erotic, nonetheless. Wank fodder, pure and simple. The obscene fantasies of a bibliophilic angel committed to paper for future perusal; Crowley was as sure as the sky was blue that this was the work of Aziraphale. 

“Oh, Aziraphale,” he said with a groan, the hand on his cock almost painfully tight as he thought of his friend. “It doesssn’t work like that.”

“Doesn’t work like what, my dear?” 

_FUCK._

Aziraphale had returned. Crowley glanced at the clock. It read 7.30pm. He’d lost track of time, and the thought of Aziraphale finding him with his fingers running up and down the old flagpole was not nearly as appealing as it had been before. Not after all had read of the angel's fantasies (and his fears). With a snap of his fingers, the books locked themselves back up in their box, the sweat evaporated from his brow, and his trousers zipped themselves back up. Unfortunately for Crowley, the small miracle he had just performed did nothing to dissipate the erection that throbbed dangerously against the hellishly tight confines of his jeans. 

“Did you just do something?”asked Aziraphale as he stepped into the backroom, shrugging his coat from his shoulders. 

Crowley panicked. “What? No. No idea what you’re talking about, angel.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replied. “Then this just appeared of its own accord, did it?”

Aziraphale picked up a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape and brandished it accusingly in the demon’s direction. Crowley breathed a small sigh of relief. Wine. Yes. He’d totally meant to do that. 

“Given you lost The Toss this morning, it only seemed fair,” Crowley said, carefully rearranging himself in the arm chair to hide the last (and most inconvenient) of the evidence of the afternoon’s little diversion. 

“Hmm.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze seemed to hold a hint of suspicion, though Crowley couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t simply his guilty conscience imagining it. In the same way he couldn’t quite be sure if he had imagined the way Aziraphale’s eyes had flickered downwards for a split second as he had maneuvered a cushion into subtle yet prime cock-concealment territory. Or if Aziraphale had gasped slightly in response. 

“It would be a crime to leave it sitting there, unopened,” said Aziraphale as he fished two wine glasses out from under the sideboard. “Could I tempt you?”

When did he not, Crowley thought. He removed his sunglasses and sighed. His cock throbbed almost sympathetically in his jeans. 

“How could I say no?”

It was going to be a long night. But also, quite possibly, a glorious one.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I didn't manage to make the erotica specifically 'demon' erotica. But I did try to make the prose as demonically awful as I could. I hope it suffices!


End file.
